In which Ruth attempts to write 221bs
by arwenae
Summary: Decided to write a bit of fun to keep us afloat while the angst rains down around us. New to the format etc, so any crit more than welcome.
1. Chapter 1

"It is an established pattern, John, that a greater genius will often have more prominent… foibles. I myself endanger my life in the pursuit of puzzles, Mycroft steals umbrellas. We all have our own idiosyncrasies."

"Sorry, Mycroft what?"

"Oh, haven't I brought that up in your presence yet? I must have been in a good mood. Mycroft pinches umbrellas. Has done for years. That's why he always carries one of his own about, so that if he gets caught he can always say it was a mistake, and it's not so awkward when he has to return it to the owner if he doesn't."

"I imagine he gets away with it more often than not. "

"Well, naturally. He is a Holmes, after all. I believe he's stolen one cabinet minister's brolly three times."

"Wow."

"I used to plant brightly coloured ones in places I knew he'd have to visit, just so I could see him carrying one of them around later. It was great fun on rainy days. I used to put one in every room of a building and watch to see which one he would be forced to use when he came out. There's a whole photo album somewhere under that analysis of stamp glue."

"You're a cruel man, Sherlock."

"Merely sportive, John. After all, we are brothers."


	2. Chapter 2

John was getting tired of this. This time Mycroft had chosen to give him his lecture in a fairly innocuous Georgian terraced house, and was fiddling idly with ornaments on the mantelpiece as he spoke.

No umbrella today, apparently. Mycroft seemed a little less self-assured without it in his hands, and John couldn't imagine why he would have abandoned it.

**New Message**

**Sender: Sherlock.**

**Take a picture. SH.**

Frowning, John dashed off a reply, before following Mycroft, who seemed to have despaired of making John see sense in the matter of the staples.

**New message**

**Sender: John Mob.**

**What of? JW.**

It was raining. Mycroft cast a calculating look down at his suit and sighed.

"Not a word, John. Not one word." He reached reluctantly down into the large bag at his side.

John remembered the next few moments less as a sequence of images, more a general sensation of pinkness. So much pink. Pink and gold. Gold swirls. On pink. Oh, and frills. Pink ones. Pink pinky pink pink pi-

"_John._"

John blinked. Mycroft was giving him the Look.

"Do _try_ to be an adult, John."

Mycroft executed a perfect about face, six feet of icy dignity crowned with two feet of trifle in drag.

Suddenly, John understood.

**New picture message received.**

**Sender: John Mob.**

**Title: It's just so beautiful…**


	3. Chapter 3

**This one was a right snake-in-a-sack to get down to 221. Apologies for any loss of quality that may have resulted from my struggles.**

A ball pool. Of all the places that snapped cable could have dumped them, the recoil had thrown them through a window straight into the JunglePlay ball pool. Thank God. Thank _God._

"John! John, what is this?"

Confused by the panic in the detective's voice, John spun, only to see Sherlock on his back, flailing madly at the swirling balls as he utterly failed to stop himself sinking. John couldn't help smirking at the ridiculousness of the man.

"You're such a girl when you're out of your comfort zone, you know that?"

"Am… am not." Sherlock had struggled back to his feet, but seemed unwilling to make any further moves yet.

"It's just a ball pool, Sherlock! Kids play in here."

"And their parents _let_ them?"

Sherlock gasped as another ball took his foot from under him and the undulating mass claimed him again.

John would later admit that what he did next was cruel. But utterly, completely worth it.

With the ease of a professional, he slid beneath the surface of the balls, 'swimming' smoothly towards his prey. He waited until his fingertips were brushing that coat, and then… he pounced.

Sherlock's shrieks were enough to bring Security down on them, who, once convinced they weren't vandals, laughed like a drain as Sherlock stumbled and lurched out of the balls.


End file.
